A Tainted Saint
by vehementvenom
Summary: "She was gone, as the Glinda before her and the one before that; all of the Glindas she had ever been and all the Galindas as well." Major hints of Gelphie.


**A/N ****(and this is important):**_If you haven't read my other fic, Punctuality, you might have some trouble with enjoying this one to the fullest._

_I've mulled over this for quite a while and, despite A Tainted Saint's dependence on Punctuality, I believe it better to have them as two separate oneshots rather than joining them as a two-chapter story, since the general themes and moods that permeate both of them are radically different. Not only that, Punctuality was specifically designed to hold on its own, and, to some extent, so was A Tainted Saint; the only reason they have a connection is because I, in my ineptitude, couldn't come up with anything else and was forced to rely upon a previously established concept I had explored._

_Overall, this whole thing is__ just an experiment. I have mixed views on it myself, but, being the writer, my opinion is obviously biased. We're never really happy with what we create, are we?_

_But enough of my blabbering (and this is why I hate Author's Notes at the top, they clutter the page-I'll do my best to avoid them in the future), on to the angstfest *cough* story!_

* * *

><p><strong>A Tainted Saint<strong>

The soft glow of an awakening new day made its way inside the residence of purity; there were no curtains to diminish its shine as it crept along the windowsill, one or two finely crafted wooden chairs, an exuberant carpet acquired from a merchant of the Vinkus and the most expensive Gillikinese sheets money could buy, until it found its ultimate destination: mingling into those golden curls, warming that alabaster skin and gently informing Perfection's eyes that it was time to contemplate life once more.

Glinda squirmed a bit as she sat up in her large bed, temporarily blinded by the sudden brightness. Who had left those curtains open, what incompetent servant had forgotten to ensure her–? Oh. No, no, wait, she knew why: Glinda herself had left the colossal window uncovered, for she had spent the night before staring out at the full moon, basking in its light, searching…?

With some difficulty, her eyes adjusted and she could see her room, her realm; the same place, equipped with the very same furniture, decorated with those same useless ornaments which greeted her when she woke and bid her goodnight before she slipped away into a far different world; a world where skin, rather than buildings, was the color of emeralds.

The woman shook her head, as if to banish any thoughts from her mind, and slowly got out of her bed. She stood and stared at the overbearing green city beneath her, stirring and bustling with the distractions and obligations which came with every new day (making "every new day" as bleak and insignificant as the one before). It was, after all, a day like any other; birthdays have no meaning when there is no one to celebrate with (or no one to celebrate at all).

A knock at the door; Glinda fetched her white robe (as mostly everything in the room) and admitted the servant inside. Humbled by Goodness, the modest little woman offered Lady Glinda a small piece of paper, informing her it was sir Chuffrey's, bowed and retreated to a less incandescent and much more mundane crevice than her mistress' chamber.

Once again alone, the blonde unfolded and read (in nearly unintelligible calligraphy, rushed and coarse) something along the lines of:

"_My dear wife: I have been summoned with immediate effect to business out of town. Forgive me for leaving so and for not being with you today. I cannot predict when I shall be able to return. Hoping the gifts make up for my fault. Your Chuffrey_."

Unaware of such presents, she set out to find them; in the drawing room she found a good number of new dresses, each a distinct color (though all richly adorned with frills, laces and the like), pieces of costly jewelry (many bore enchanting stones of a glimmering shade of red) and some other boxes Glinda left unattended. She was breathless for a moment, though not in awe by the wonders of consumerism, what with all its carefully calculated excellence and beauty, no; rather, she felt suffocated by it, assaulted by its presumption, drowned in the midst of such ostentation.

With some effort, she summoned enough strength to command one of her maids to prepare her bath instantly and afterwards made her escape back to her chamber. In it, however, she felt suddenly overpowered by the undiluted sanctity she herself had manufactured around her.

In another time, in another place and perhaps, if given by a different lover (or someone who actually cared for her at that), Glinda would've been ecstatic with her presents. But at this stage of her lifetime, she felt disgusted by them and the simple fact of having so much as looked at those new belongings made her feel mortally dirty herself. She had to purge that foulness out of her and so she did as soon as she submerged in the hot water-filled tub that had been made for her. Her muscles relaxed and her mind went blank for a while.

Her tranquility did not last – the water washed only some of her sins away, leaving Glinda's mind vulnerable to remorse and regret and painful (or were they marvelous?) recollections: guilt for letting _her_ leave, for leaving _her_ alone in this Unnamed God-forsaken city; repentance for not chasing after _her_, wishing she could will time back, desiring she could rewrite her memories. She would've jumped off that coach and held _her_ tight and perhaps she would demand a third kiss, but one of everlasting companionship and happiness, instead of departure and all-consuming sorrow.

The force of her thoughts was too much to bear; her conscience shrieked, the image of her blunders burned inside her eyelids, every cell in her body rebelled and her head reeled.

Glinda took a deep breath and sank wholly inside the bathtub; she would drown out her own conflicting, accusing, suffering voices in that which became a ritual to her ever since they first pervaded her psyche. That was her daily baptism (or was it her own self-inflicted damnation, her just punishment for having erred so?) and after it she would emerge as the pretty picture she had allowed Oz to paint of her, at least on the outside.

After almost forgetting to resurface a great deal of times and finally having expunged what needed to be expunged (or so she tried to tell herself), the supposed Embodiment of Happiness and Fulfillment tended to herself. She decided to wear, as had become her habit, some simple, although not exaggeratedly so, white dress–white, the color of purity and innocence, the color of angels, as sacrosanct as people wanted her to be; the color of humility and of virginity.

The perfect color for Glinda; the other hues she loved to dress in when younger and decidedly more satisfied with everything in general had not the connotation of white, nor quite the irony: she had long lost any ounce of the purity or the innocence she once possessed (and now only feigned), she lived surrounded by her demons and would do so to the end of her time and perhaps, yes, perhaps she was somewhat humble. Life had done a lot to her, maybe too much. Virginity, however? What a word, and what an insignificant (or was it too influential?) one it was to her.

She mourned that and much more, despite the fake smiles she plastered on her face all the time; she grieved for herself. She had died. Countless times, even: when _she_ left, when Glinda stayed awake in their dorm room every night imagining _her_ in her rightful bed (or in Glinda's. Yes, in Glinda's, and the woman smiled faintly at the thought of it), when she'd put on that wedding gown (appropriately white!) or, worse, when her then recently lawful husband had violently ripped it apart (and her as well), overtaken with lust.

Every time he held her, every look he gave her, every word he uttered or even conceived – Glinda bewailed. She was gone, as the Glinda before her and the one before that; all of the Glindas she had ever been and all the Galindas as well.

She was dead and her marriage only made it official – it was the signature on her death warrant and it had been written by her own hand.

The body her wrist had condemned now seemed to move by its own accord: Glinda found herself leaving her house. Her movements were still gracious as ever, her appearance as impeccable as it had always been, her comeliness perhaps enhanced by the simplicity of her garb, yet her eyes were dull; the usual sparkle which distinguished her above all others in her schoolgirl days was completely gone.

She moved along the elegant streets of the most opulent district in the Emerald City, sometimes stopping here and there, buying things for no true reason except for show, giving out smiles and curtsies, receiving excited cheers and warm "happy birthday" wishes from faces she recognized but did not know. She wasn't exactly young anymore, but they made her feel a centenarian, some martyr Methuselah ready to be thrown in a ditch anywhere to await the inevitable deterioration of her physical body. As for her soul… Soul? Ha! It rested peacefully somewhere inside the digestive tracks of the political and social vermin that infest all circumstances of life.

Thus the Good Witch spent her day and thus had she endured her lifeless existence ever since _someone_ had begged her to "hold out". _She_ knew Glinda could take it, though not how well. Without _her_, everything was… Without _her_ she was even unable to cry, despite the agony that flowed inside her with every beat of her wounded (broken, steadily obliterated) heart

Hours later, the sharp ache of her aimlessness grew more painful and ushered her back home. The menials were to stay away for the remainder of the day and to allow no one in. If anybody asked, she was out somewhere, anywhere, just not at home.

She was set to go to the opera with Crope, Avaric and some other old friends Crope had managed to gather especially for her birthday (though he probably went to so much trouble mostly for his own sake, since loneliness has a certain grip on people). Even Boq had gone all the way from his quiet farm in Munchkinland to honor her. But how could she go, how could she face them and pretend everything was peachy and wonderful when her brain was being so brutally bombarded by her consciousness, by her remembrances? Wasn't it enough to pretend to the rest of the world?

Her memories (or were they fantasies? Did it matter?) swirled in her head and they were all tinted green. Not her silent, sacrificial, mocking white, but a vocal, insubordinate, rebellious, luscious, passionate, glorious green!

The color clouded her sensations and what was left of her rationality and next thing she knew, Glinda was back on her angelic nest, carelessly plopped over her rich white sheets. Again, white, that awful non-color she'd chosen to simultaneously mask and reveal the failure that was Glinda Chuffrey (Arduenna of the Uplands). That hideous absence of color she used to try and ban green from her life, as Animals had been banned from everyone's, including their own, during the Wizardic reign.

She curled herself into an awkward and uncomfortable position as she recalled all those things she so desperately tried to bury, as she felt the pain inside her chest where her stolen, mutilated heart should be, as she waited for the moonlight to shine over her as it had the night before and every full moon evening hitherto.

She let out a muffled groan in midst of her deified room's blackness, noticing a few clouds were blocking the light beams, so she shut her eyes forcefully; if the moon couldn't placate her suffering, perhaps the stars she fabricated could overthrow the green that threatened to consume whatever was left of her sanity (but hadn't it already, wasn't she already mad? Was love –was it really love at all?– a lunacy, a burden so terrible as to deprive her of reasoning?).

Some time passed. How much, Glinda couldn't tell; maybe seconds, maybe a thousand years, –it certainly felt like an eternity– but the clouds finally moved along and the sacred refuge of diaphanous holiness was flooded by the gentle, yet firm flare the natural satellite blessed her with. Sensing that, she opened her now sore eyes to gaze at the moon above her; it was so distant (as was _she_), so intangible (as _she_ had been even before _she_ abandoned her), Glinda wished she could touch it.

If she could get a hold of it, who's to say –and now she took uncertain steps toward the window– she couldn't have _her_ too? If one impossible event could occur, why couldn't another, as impossible as– what was that resting upon the windowsill?

Glinda rushed to the object, her pain suddenly substituted by a strong pounding as the adrenaline traversed her veins. Was it – yes, yes, it was. How could it be? But she didn't care for the how anymore as she took the thorny, naked green stem from where it lay, surrounded by (the light was very weak, but she knew, she didn't need to see to know, she just knew) a number of scattered orange and golden petals. As a queen amidst her adoring court, as a saint surrounded by her most fervent supporters, as the only true feeling Glinda could feel amongst the illegitimacy that crowded inside her; as the only thing that mattered, the only unblemished beauty, the true perfection she so desperately tried (and failed) to emulate, no unnecessary embellishments

Her hands trembled, the air caught up in her throat; all those thoughts, those memories, those dreams which had haunted her for the past years merged into an amalgamation of, yes, of course, pain and melancholy as always, but, above all, into a combination of love and affection, of friendship, of _hope_. Culminating with that flower's carcass (there had been only one like it, a single specimen, she knew it, she was sure of it, and, yet, there was that miracle, safe in her quivering soft fingers), all those incoherent visions turned into one–one what? One hallucination, one spiritual presence, one green exquisite body completing her own? One name.

"_Elphaba_," she whispered.

It sounded so foreign on her lips, from all that time she'd spent avoiding its pronunciation, but it was delicious, somewhat bittersweet; hot, cold, dark, bright, perky, dejected, sinful, _divine_. It was addicting.

She needed more, she would have more – how long could that gift have been there? It couldn't have been placed before she'd made her return to the room, she would have noticed. It hadn't been there (had it?). No, it was deposited while she closed her eyes to death, it had to, it _was_, which meant the giver was still nearby, which meant Elphaba was close; Elphaba would hear her if she shouted her name, Elphaba would come for her, Elphaba… _Elphaba_.

Glinda drew in as much air as she could, forcing her lungs to maximum extent, and threw the window wide open, almost breaking it in the process, but not an ounce of sound escaped her quaking mouth. For, as soon as she'd projected her magnificent fair head outside, the knob on her door turned and she was paralyzed by it. Could it, was it, did Elphaba–

"Good evening, dear," came the voice from the shadowy figure standing at the entrance.

Shocked by the unexpected arrival of sir Chuffrey, Glinda lost her grip on the stem and it fell out to meet the horrible canal down below, as her husband obliviously asked her if she had enjoyed her presents, including his surprise return (despite him having arrived just barely).

Glinda couldn't hear him, though, for a gust of nocturnal wind raided the moonlit room, taking with it all the exotic petals and causing her to lose her balance, to which Chuffrey instantly reacted, running toward her and taking her into his old, but still strong and reliable arms. All this elicited a fierce (shattered) yell from his wife and she struggled to free herself, to follow the colored leaves into the abyss, into Elphaba's frigid, dead arms.

Some minutes later, when there was no trace whatsoever of the flower left, as if it were never there to begin with, the clouds once again shrouded the moon, plunging the couple and their surroundings into darkness. The woman yielded as the man enveloped her in a tight embrace to which she did not respond, catatonic.

And then, for the first time in years, Glinda allowed tears to trickle down her broken face, drawing delicate lines of forlorn love upon her pale complexion of death; and thus, the strokes of midnight stained the dwelling of Goodness on the anniversary of its birth and Goodness was no more.


End file.
